Breakfast at Don & Paul's Coffee Shoppe

01 Breakfast at Don & Paul's Coffee Shoppe – third edit 2/29 11 AM

It was a chilly windswept Tuesday morning as I left Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments. I pulled my cap down a little tighter and rolled my jacket collar up to keep the cold breeze off my neck. My joints were stiff as they were every morning. I certainly needed my cane to balance thanks to that numbness in my feet that came on after my accident. I never even heard of neuropathy before until I got it a few years ago. I staggered like a drunk.

Waterford is full of drunks, people used to say, so I should fit right in and no one will notice. In the old days, every other business on Broad Street in the village was a bar, it seemed. They were favored by factory workers after their shifts before heading home. “Boilermakers”, which is a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser, was so named in their honor. I find it interesting how names sometimes evolve. Bartenders would line up boilermakers on the bar in anticipation of the workers coming in after their shifts. They did the same thing at noontime for the workers who “ate lunch” at the bars.

I made my way down to the end of the street from Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments and took a right towards the village. It really hasn't changed a lot since the days of my youth fifty-five-plus years ago. The houses were pretty much all unchanged. I smiled to myself a bit. I'm back home, I thought. As I shuffled down the sidewalk, balancing with my cane, my mind wandered. It seems to wander a lot lately. Probably that accident. I also can't concentrate or remember much of anything. Concussions can be serious, and I had two. Stupid tree.

I had been away from Waterford for decades. I moved around a bit, my first wife and I. Every twenty years or so we pulled up stakes. We always lived somewhat close to Waterford, but never seemed to make the time to visit. We were always busy. Life does that. Jahnn was a sailor. Since I married into it, I too became a sailor and we were always busy racing and cruising on our boat.

Sailing is not a matter of life and death. It is much more important than that. I smiled. After fifty years of focusing on boating, it doesn't seem important anymore. We were boating on a lake mostly, fer pete's sake. We couldn't go anywhere. Just in circles, basically. Maybe that's why many of my friends stayed in Waterford all these years. They were just going in circles.

After our divorce, I married another. Pamela and I moved to Stamford, Connecticut. There, we bought a trawler, and when I retired we spent time meandering down the east coast, traveling slowly. What's the rush? Whenever we stopped, we'd play “I could live here!”. We enjoyed visiting new places, especially in the south. Small towns with friendly people. Sort of like Waterford. I could live here. Or here. Or here.

But good times were not to last. We were spending money “like drunken sailors”. So we sold the boat and bought ten acres of land in the foothills of the Adirondacks with the intention of building an off-grid homestead. There would be room for Pamela's horse, our two goats, four dogs, three cats, and two chickens. But that accident involving my head and a falling tree , breaking my neck real good and scrambling my alleged brains put an end to that. I could no longer build anything. I couldn't lift more than five pounds. Pretty pathetic for a guy who used to build rock walls on the property, which had plenty of rocks. Doctors thought I might be bedridden, but being as stubborn as I am, and with the help of physical therapy, I got to the point where I could at least walk a bit. Which I enjoy doing. Keep moving or you rust.

Rocks. It reminded me of a joke I read as a kid. A fella stopped his car in the country. There was a farmer there, standing behind a stone wall resting a bit from working in his field. The fella said hello.

“Sure are a lot of rocks here,” the fella said, making small talk.

“Yup,” said the farmer.

“Where did they all come from?” he asked.

“Glacier brought 'em,” said the farmer.

“Huh. Where did the glacier go?” asked the fella, teasing a bit.

“Went back to get more rocks,” said the farmer.

HAHAHAHA! That joke is still funny. I still love those corny old kid jokes. More rocks. Ha.

I wonder why Pamela left me? No boat? Maybe she told me and I forgot.

Now I live in senior housing. It is a little one bedroom apartment, but after living on a boat, it is more than large enough for me. I don't need much, nowadays. I miss my dogs, Ruby and Chevy. They crossed that Rainbow Bridge. I hope there is one and they're waiting for me.

I kept shuffling along with my cane and avoiding cracks in the old sidewalk.

There's the old St. Mary's convent. I wonder if churches still have convents? All of St. Mary's nuns lived there years ago. I'd see them walking to and from church in groups Funny. Nuns gave up their traditional black habits in favor of more traditional, but modest dress, with hemlines that went to mid-calf. A group of them were walking up the sidewalk to the convent one Sunday morning, returning from church. I was riding with my buddy Tom as his father drove us home from 11 o'clock mass. Mr. Bombard slowed as he approached them. He rolled down his window.

“Hey Sisters! All this time, I thought you just floated along!”

I was both horrified (since nuns were scary and not to be messed with) and laughing hysterically. Tom went to St. Mary's Elementary School so he was used to nuns, but he laughed pretty hard too.

I made it as far as St. Mary's Church Hall. I needed to rest, so I sat on O'Connor's stone wall for a bit. Went back to get more rocks. I chuckled to myself. Good joke.

I held my cane in front of me and rested my chin on the top of my hands. My mind wandered back to the time when Mr. B. took Tom and I to a smoker at the hall. They called it a smoker for a reason. All of the men (no women allowed) were smoking cigars. Tom and I didn't smoke, of course, being only about eight or nine years old, but we enjoyed watching the featured boxing match. At the end of the night, they gave away door prizes. I won an eight pack of spark plugs.

I wonder if the church still has smokers? Probably not. That is probably frowned upon now. Especially around kids. And especially in an ancient wooden building. Talk about a fire trap.

I remember the inside of the hall. Funny, because I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I can recall a place I'd only been in once, for that smoker, and that was about sixty years ago. The hall was also the school's gymnasium, with hoops for basketball at each end. One was over the stage, which I assume was for plays and such, and the other was attached to a balcony. There were very tall windows on the sides. The walls were off-white. I don't remember any bleachers.

A car pulled up alongside the curb in front of me. I lifted my head. I wondered what make it is? I used to be able to identify cars easily, but they all look the same now. Like jellybeans.

“Hey mister, are you OK?” a young guy hollered to me out the driver's window.

“I'm fine. Just taking a rest. I walked a few blocks and I'm winded, that's all,” I answered.

“Would you like a lift?”

“No thank you. I'm only going to the village. I need to walk.”

“OK mister. Take care,” and he drove off.

Ha. This is where we used to hitchhike from as kids. We'd stand by the church hall and thumb rides the mile back home to Swayze Acres. When we got to be teenagers, we stopped riding bikes and hitchhiked. Only goobers rode bikes. Hitching was more grown-up. Someone always stopped and picked us up. It never took more than five or ten minutes to hitch a ride. But I guess you can't do that anymore either. Too many damn perverts. We didn't have perverts in the old days.

I grabbed my cane and stood for a few seconds. With numbness in my feet, I can't feel the ground too good. I needed to get my balance before walking. I didn't want to fall again. I called it “finding my feet”. I was a bit unsteady, but OK. I shuffled off.

I crossed Division Street and as I passed the school, I could “hear” the laughter of the children as they were let out for recess. I wonder if schools still have recess? I'll have to ask someone.

I then came up to the largest, grandest structure in the entire village. St. Mary of the Assumption Church. Not only was it huge, but it was built from giant granite blocks, with fabulous stained glass windows.

Huh. I thought the church was larger than that. The granite blocks don't seem as large either. But still, it is impressive to see. Like a castle in a Medieval village. Maybe I should go to mass someday. I haven't done that since 1968. I wonder if they'd even let me in, since I married Jahnn, a Protestant, without getting permission from the parish priests. If you were going to marry outside of your Catholic faith, you needed permission or you'd be excommunicated. The priests really wanted your non-Catholic wife to convert to Catholicism, but you at had to at least promise to raise your children as Catholics. Maybe a heathen alarm would go off if I tried to go inside. I won't try. Not today. I'm hungry.

Whew. It was now downhill for the next couple of blocks. I crossed the old bridge over the old Champlain Canal. I always sing (quietly, since I can't sing)...

I've got a mule and her name is Sal

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

She's a good old worker and a good old pal

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

We've hauled some barges in our day

Filled with lumber, coal, and hay

And every inch of the way we know

From Albany to Buffalo

Low bridge, everybody down

Low bridge cause we're coming to a town

And you'll always know your neighbor

And you'll always know your pal

If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal

Get up there Sal, we've passed that lock,

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

And we'll make Rome before six o'clock

Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

One more trip and back we'll go

Through the rain and sleet and snow

And every inch of the way we know

From Albany to Buffalo

Low bridge, everybody down

Low bridge for we're coming to a town

And you'll always know your neighbor

And you'll always know your pal

If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

I can remember singing that song in the third grade. I always thought the canal that ran by the school was the Erie, but it was actually the old Champlain, I later learned as an adult. As a kid, it didn't matter. What did we care? It was old. It wasn't used anymore. Progress.

I walked past where Shulusky's Diner was. Shulusky's had a jukebox, and every table had a small version where you could play songs for a nickel each. The building was still there, but now it's a sign shop. Next was where the old IGA was, a grocery store where my folks shopped. When it opened, it put many smaller grocers out of business. But then big supermarkets came along, the ones with the automatic opening doors, and the IGA had to close. There's now a bakery there.

Next I walked past the ginney store. We kids bought cigars there for when we went fishing. As kids, we had no idea what “ginney” meant. We didn't mean it in a bad way. It was just the ginney store. That's what everyone called it. We didn't know it wasn't nice. But we knew two old Italian sisters owned it, all dressed in black, and they would sell us cigars. If you could reach the counter with your quarter, you got your cigar.

I got to McGreivy's Restaurant. It used to be Camp's Grill in the old days. Camp's had four bowling alleys in there that provided jobs to school kids as pin setters. My father's Uncle Graham used to tend bar there. He was in World War II. The big one. I stopped in sometimes to say hi to Uncle Graham. I remember walking in and the smell of cigars hit me. Uncle Graham smoked cigars stuck in one of those plastic mouthpieces.

I crossed the street at the light. Back in the old days, there was a crossing guard there to get the school kids across. The guard also owned the liquor store kiddy-corner from Camp's. She dressed like a man for some reason. I didn't get across fast enough and the light changed. Someone honked at me. So I shuffled along slower. Damn kids, always in a hurry going someplace. What are you going to do now? Run me over? Go ahead, I need the money. We never honked like that. We just honked at our friends.

I took a left. The big ol' National Commercial Bank and Trust was moved out and it was now offices. Their parking lot replaced the liquor store. Then I passed the small building where my dentist was and that was offices. No dentist. Good. I hated going there. I didn't like the sound the drill made.

Finally, I arrived at Don & Paul's Coffee Shoppe. I pulled open the familiar old wooden door. It is familiar because it used to be Michon's store. Michon sold newspapers and magazines, but also had a good selection of comic books and penny candy. Walk into Michon's with a few quarters and you were set for the day.

I remember Mr. Michon well. He had the patience of a saint as we kids would line up by his front window and select our penny candy which was displayed prominently to entice passing kids to stop in. He'd stand by the window that had the candy on display in small bowls, little brown paper bag in hand.

“I'll take two of those,” I'd say, pointing. “And three of those... no, two of those...”.

This was an important decision. It was our candy for the day.

While one of us was selecting candy, the others surveyed the comic book racks. As kids, we didn't have to make too many choices, but candy and comic books ranked at the top. Those were fun times. I wonder if they still make penny candy? It's probably dime candy now.

“Mr. Gibson? Are you OK,” asked Kayla, a waitress.

“Uh, oh. Fine. I'm fine,” I said as I snapped out of my daydream.

“Sit anywhere you like.”

I hung my jacket and cap up on a hook and took a seat at the counter, off to the right. The tables are on the left, but everyone sat at the counter. I stood my cane up, leaning it against the next stool. This used to be the area where tobacco was sold, I recalled. Now it had grills, cooks, and a lunch counter. Why can't things just stay as they were? It's progress, they'd say. Who reads newspapers anymore? Or comic books? Everything is done online. And tobacco? Hardly anyone smokes anymore. I quit myself in 1975 when my daughter was a year old, and I had just read an article about second hand smoke.

“It's always something,” Gilda Radner famously said. She died.

Died. Many of my friends and schoolmates have passed over the years. Some killed in war, some in accidents, some from disease... it's always something.

Back in the old days, as a kid, I don't remember giving death much thought. You have to die of something, my mom once told me. You might as well smoke. She died from a disease thought to be caused by smoking, it turned out.

Everyone smoked. All of the grownups. All of the big kids. So we smaller kids started smoking in our teens. You were supposed to be eighteen to buy cigarettes, but not at the ginney store. And you could even buy cigarettes out of vending machines back in the old days. A quarter a pack. Now I hear that some places charge ten dollars a pack. Imagine that.

Adults drank, at least on weekends and holidays when visiting friends and family. So we kids started buying beer from the ginney store in our teens as well. We couldn't wait to grow up and be eighteen and could sit in bars. Sometimes underage kids would make fake identification cards. They'd go to the photo booth at Woolworths where you'd get five photos for twenty-five cents and cut one out and glue to the ID drawn by a kid good at art. Then put a silver dollar under it and whack it with a wooden mallet to stamp it. If you didn't look close, it looked like a notary stamp. Where there's a will, there's a way.

We were in a big rush to be adults. Now I wonder why? You'd think we'd be happy being children. What's the rush? Life seemed so simple back then. It seemed like a carefree time to live. We didn't have a worry in the world except for Jimmy, the neighborhood bully. Just candy and comic books for the most part. Sometimes cigars.

I glanced out the big front window that used to display the penny candy. There was an antique car pulling up to the curb outside. A car show in the middle of the week? Early in the morning? It looked like a mid-fifties Chevy. A young guy got out. I chuckled. He was dressed for the part. I owned a 1956 Thunderbird that I would show and I'd sometimes dress the part too. He was good. He looked like he belonged in that car. He even had a flat-top DA. Where do you get one of those haircuts now? Where do you even get a barber now?

I turned as my breakfast arrived. I got the same thing every morning. Two eggs over easy, home fries, toast, and coffee. Cheap enough at $5. Plus walking to the village gave me a little exercise. I enjoyed the walk. I didn't go in inclement weather and had to fend for myself, which I don't do well. A bowl of granola was the best I could manage. Sure, I can fry eggs. I used to. But now that I'm alone, it doesn't seem worth the effort.

I looked around the coffee shop. I didn't see anyone I knew. Of course, the people that I knew were all fifty years older now, so I doubt I'd recognize them. Or they me. I know some of my friends never moved from Waterford and this was one of the few places to get breakfast in the village. Why they stayed, I have no idea. There was nothing for them here.

I ate my breakfast. Eggs and home fries probably aren't good for you. It will clog up your arteries. But you have to die of something. My mom died of pancreatic cancer. It wasn't a good way to go. Since I quit smoking, I'm entitled to clog stuff.

I took my paper napkin and placed it on the plate over the home fries I couldn't finish. I waved Kayla over for my check. Did she change clothes and do something with her hair?

“Here ya go, hun,” said Kayla, setting my check face down on the counter.

“Thank you Kayla,” I said.

“Who? My name is Mary.”

Mary? My memory is getting bad with the years, especially after my accidents and two concussions, but I could swear her name was Kayla. I must be losing it.

“Sorry,” I stammered. “My mistake. Old age and all, ya know.”

Kayla or Mary or whatever her name is smiled and turned to wait on other customers.

I looked at the green check that had “Thank You” printed in cursive across the top. Do they still teach cursive in school? I heard they don't. The total was $1.25. I waved the waitress back over.

“Mary, there's something wrong with my check.”

“Oh, I'm sorry hun. Here, let me see it.”

I handed it back to her.

“What's wrong with it?” she asked sweetly.

“Shouldn't that be five dollars?”

“For eggs, toast, home fries, and coffee?” she asked, somewhat taken aback.

“Yes... isn't that what I pay every morning?” I asked.

“Oh God no, honey. Are you thinking of dinner?”

“Uh... yeah, that must be it,” I said as I handed Mary my debit card.

“What's this?” asked Mary.

“My debit card.”

Mary made a face. I thought I always paid with my debit card. I dug into my pocket and fished out a dollar twenty-five in change, and left a dollar bill next to my plate.

As I shuffled towards the door, I looked back. Mary was holding my dollar bill and looking at it. It must be a big tip for such a little bill, I thought.

I retrieved my jacket and cap and put them on. I looked back as I went out the door. Mary was holding the dollar and staring at it.

“Hey Paul,” she said. “Look at this dollar. Its got colors. Is it Canadian?”

As I stepped outside, I felt the cold air hit my neck. I turned up the collar. Hey. This isn't my jacket. I must have grabbed the wrong one. I went back inside. The coat hooks were empty.

I guess I'll have to wear this piece of crap, I thought to myself. Someone must have taken mine by mistake. As I turned up the collar a bit more, I noticed that it was wool and not fleece. I looked at the sleeve. It was maroon, not tan like my jacket. It had buttons. How could I have made a mistake like this? This sort of reminds me of the CPOs we wore as kids. CPO stood for Chief Petty Officer. I still knew that, but that's as far as it went.

I tried to tug my cap down. As I felt for the brim... it wasn't there. My cap was gone. Damn! It must have blown off. I looked around and didn't see it.

But look at all of the classic cars! The little village downtown was full of them! Why? There can't be a car show on a weekday. Maybe it's Saturday or Sunday. Being retired, I lose track of what day it is sometimes. Not working, the day of the week doesn't matter anymore. Just like when we were kids on summer vacation. The only day that mattered was Saturday for the morning cartoons.